How can you be so sure
you so neatly tie
to the clip on festival of ears
makes your face
whole – my friend, my insomniac life?
Now it could be
you’ve been here, repeatedly;
may have gotten tired,
satisfied with all his old wars;
the conflicts ever renewing,
those dark grotesqueries, love’s suitors;
and, you seem knowing
all too well of the fatal game;
you’ve been playing along, way too long,
and she has all the cards: you, the lies;
so quickly – go now, do not look —
nor turn back; for it’s too late, tear off
that skin, the masked impersonation
of self and anti-self, unbound
in deadly anticipation of this doubt:
casting all that is in fear and terror —
of that which lives inside, crumpled, along;
under that dark stone of thought, forgotten.
Go look in the mirror, what do you see?
Yes, it is the despair’s other face,
the untimely prince —uncloaked, unseen;
and now you’ve given him the final lie:
a chance disguise, the mask of death – a surprise.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.